Unthinkable Acts
by AnneNevilleReviews
Summary: Five years after the Dark Lord's death, Draco Malfoy struggles with lingering prejudice, embarrassing secrets, and his attraction to a most inappropriate individual. After a lifetime of following, is it possible for Draco to break the rules?
1. Chapter 1

**Unthinkable Acts**

Draco Malfoy was being buried alive.

Naked, he lay in a pit, six feet of earth towering over him. A jeering crowd cast dirt on him. Bits of gravel rained down, dust stung his eyes, and a few rose petals—a tiny handful of withering blossoms that spoke of his possible redemption—scattered across his chest. Their sickly perfume threatened to overwhelm him.

He always had been super-sensitive to smells.

With a gasp, Draco sat up. He saw his bedroom. His down comforter. His silver-and-green tapestries. His wand beside his pillow. It was all there, just as it should be. He was safe and at home.

Of course, he wasn't _really_ dead. He just wished he was.

In the past five years, the nightmares had been relentless. There was the one of him screaming, his arm burning where the dark mark had defaced it. Him, slaughtered by Voldemort for failing to kill Dumbledore. Him, sobbing over his parents' bodies. Him, watching as Crabbe burned. Him, being dragged across the campus by Severus Snape, who rained curses down upon him for being an utter failure. To this day, Draco wasn't sure whether Snape called him a failure for not killing Dumbledore or for not switching sides soon enough.

Draco remembered how he'd hidden during Harry's final showdown with Voldemort, wishing he were brave enough to intervene—to throw Harry his wand, or something. Anything. _Anything_ but what he did best—which was nothing at all.

He had too many secrets. Secrets that he'd lived with for so long that they were beginning to crush him. Secrets he kept from his mother. Secrets he kept from his father, who was always in his cups. There were the secrets he had kept from the reporters who had haunted the gates of Malfoy Manor during the interminable trials that occurred after Voldemort died. And then there were all the other things he could never tell anyone.

For example, Draco never told people that he hadn't _wanted_ to be a Death Eater. At first, he had been too cowardly to say no, then he'd been too proud to say he'd been an unwilling pawn. Not with his dad watching.

He couldn't confess that his first and longest-lasting crush had been on Hermione Granger, the Mudblood who was smarter than him and who dared to slap him in the face.

Nobody knew he'd respected Luna Lovegood more than anyone else at Hogwarts. She didn't care what _anyone _thought of her. She was who she was—everyone else be damned.

And oh, Merlin, he didn't dare tell _anyone_ that the best friend he ever had at Hogwarts—the only one who _really_ listened to him during his entire life—had been a ghost who haunted a leaky bathroom. Or that he still visited her there every summer.

Last, but not least, he'd never confess to anyone that he was still a virgin. At twenty-three years old, Draco Malfoy had never "known" a woman. Not in _that_ way. Yet he had been commonly accepted as Slytherin's most notorious Lothario. If he ever approached a witch, their mamas, papas, and friends bristled:

"Stay away from him, princess. You remember what he is."

"Legal trouble. We don't want to get entangled with _that_ family."

"He's a Muggle-hater! A _bigot_!"

"Of course we want you to marry a pureblood, sweetheart. Just not that one."

"Draco Malfoy's got a bad reputation. Keep your eyes open if he's around, or you might be sorry."

Draco sat in bed, covered in a cold sweat, and laughed until tears came. Wasn't it ridiculous? Wasn't it the stupidest thing? Out of all his shameful secrets, _being __a __virgin_ felt like the most humiliating of all.

He was twenty-three years old, for God's sake! Some of his friends had "lost it" when they were thirteen. Some had been in serious relationships in school. Others had been betrothed by their parents and figured they might as well get a head start on their arranged marriage. But as much as his dad and Mr. Parkinson had hoped Draco and Pansy would make a match of it, he'd always found her repulsive—especially after the Yule Ball, when Granger had transformed like a princess in a fairytale. Draco remembered with disgust the day he'd lounged on the Hogwarts Express, his head in Pansy's lap and her fingers entwined in his hair as he bragged about the Dark Lord's big plans for him.

All the time that Pansy had caressed him, he'd been fantasizing about getting his hands on Granger. About what he'd _do_ to her when she was finally in his power. And what had he done? Nothing. He hadn't laid a finger on her, even though he'd spent almost seven years itching for the chance. Sure, he'd refused to identify her—or Potter, for that matter—but he'd also stood by while she was tortured.

That's when his childish crush finally ended. He wasn't good enough for her, and he never would be. He was ashamed of his puerile fantasies. Draco disgusted himself. Granger would never want him.

Sighing, he got out of bed and washed his face in cold water. He wouldn't fall asleep again. Not that night.

* * *

Not many people associated with the Malfoys nowadays. Narcissa was desperate to regain a modicum of respect in the community. Lucius was busy drowning himself in a butt of malmsey, so to speak. Draco spent his time cooped up in the Manor's library or roaming the streets of London, watching Muggles. He was never sure whether he went to those places to escape his peers or to punish himself for fighting on the wrong side. The losing side. After a few awkward years, he'd finally mastered his "Muggle" disguise. No one stared at him anymore. He blended right in. There, he was a nobody. It was a welcome respite for a notorious man.

But—despite his curiosity and the twinge he felt when he remembered Granger, who remained "Hermione" in his fantasies—Draco never approached a Muggle woman. Some prejudices were too hard to overcome. Maybe he could bring himself to love a Half-Blood. But he was bloody sure he'd never care for a Muggle. The idea made him sick.

_What __an __arse_ _I __am_, he told himself. _I c__an't __even __follow __through __on __my __own __convictions__—__and __I __pretend __it's __because __of __love_.

It was love that was burying him alive: love of his family, of their history, of their traditions, and even of their imperfections. Love of his mother and his father, who had once been the center of his universe. He was—attached—to his prejudice. He was used to giving in to it. It was comfortable. Comforting.

Yet another voice told him—that irritating, know-it-all voice he could still hear in his head—that he would keep waking up in his nightmare grave until he learned to turn his love outward.

On February 9th of his twenty-third year, Draco went into a bookstore with a small cafe, ordered a chai, and sat down with a pile of books. Sipping his drink, Draco skimmed each one. He pushed away _The __Leviathan_ and _The __Prince_ with disgust—he'd had enough of that garbage already. _Pride __and __Prejudice_ he liked better. He decided he would put it in his "to buy" pile. Then, a shadow fell across his table.

"Do you mind?" a woman asked. She smelled like vanilla and her voice was unusually deep. Draco looked up. Hovering over him was a young girl with curly, dark-brown hair and cat's-eye spectacles.

She gestured at the empty seat across from Draco. "I mean, may I share your table?" She smiled, flashing a crooked front tooth. Every other seat was taken. He nodded, and she joined him. For a few minutes, they sipped their drinks and flipped through their books. Then, the young woman spoke again:

"_Pride __and __Prejudice_?"

"Yes."

"I'm surprised you're reading it."

"Why?"

"Most . . ." she hesitated, then cleared her throat. "Most—guys—wouldn't be caught dead with it. Unless their girlfriend made them read it." Her eyes widened a bit. "Is your girlfriend making you?"

"No." Draco looked away. "I'm just reading it. For educational purposes."

The woman nodded, a lock of hair escaping from the elastic that held it back. "What do you think? So far?"

Draco muttered something incoherent, watching how the loose curl fell beside her glasses. He drank his tea and stalled for time.

"I think—well, I think that Darcy is a—a—privileged arsehole." He thought of himself. "And that not everyone has to get married. Not so young, anyway." Granger, Potter, the Weasleys. Even Goyle. "And Bingley is an idiot because he doesn't take what he wants when it's right in front of him."

The woman was chewing on her lip as he spoke. Somehow, Draco couldn't tear his eyes away. _I __never __knew_, he thought, _that __vanilla __went __so __well __with __chai_.

"Do you always take what you want?"

"Almost never," he said, then amended: "Not anymore."

"You haven't read very far yet," she said.

"No."

"Keep going."

"I intend to," Draco answered. He had turned back to his book when the girl's knee brushed against his own.

"Sorry," they said in unison. Then, she smiled at Draco. His stomach flipped over and he laughed—a genuine laugh this time, not a bitter one. After so many years, it sounded strange.

"What's your name?" he asked, still smiling.

She looked down at her hands, which were clasping her mug. Her lashes brushed her cheeks. "Why don't we just—enjoy each other's company. Without names," she murmured.

Draco was glad to agree. His name was unusual in the Muggle world. There was no reason to attract attention to himself.

Now that the ice had been broken, he studied his table-mate openly. She was not beautiful so much as striking. Her hair was a tangle—_Just __like __Hermione's, __but __darker_—and her eyes were unremarkable. However, they were intelligent-looking. Perhaps she was too thin and wiry, and, if you wanted to be critical, flat-chested. But she dressed well.

Draco wished he could run the tips of his fingers across her cashmere sweater. Even just the sleeve. He was taken aback by the strength of his fantasy. He hadn't felt that way since he was a fifth-year—before all that business with the Dark Lord—and now he was longing to touch a Muggle. He shook his head to clear it.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. A headache, that's all."

The woman's lip quirked. "Given you a headache already, have I?"

"No—no!"

"I have that effect on people."

Draco didn't know what to say. He wasn't in his element. He didn't belong in a Muggle bookstore, talking to a Muggle woman, holding a Muggle masterpiece and trying to offer commentary on it. Every fibre in his body was screaming that he needed to get away—as far away as he could—from this woman who reminded him so much of his hopeless high-school crush.

But his libido was telling him to stay. Oh Lord, it was telling him to _stay_.

Their knees brushed under the table again, and Draco suspected that it wasn't by accident. The eyes that met his were free of guile, though—nothing like Pansy's had been all those years ago.

Maybe he could care for a Muggle after all.

"It's getting dark," the woman said. Her voice was hypnotic. "Why don't we get out of here?"

"Where should we go?" he answered, his heart pounding.

"Go for a drink?" When she saw Draco's skeptical look, she added, "I'm legal, I swear!"

"How old?"

"Nineteen. Is that a problem?"

Draco hesitated. She _was_ very young. Finally, he answered: "_One _drink."

After they bought their books, the woman had to show Draco the way to a pub. "My favorite," she confided.

* * *

The next day, Draco returned to the bookstore, hoping to meet the anonymous woman again. He'd had fewer nightmares, and part of him said it was because he'd finally made a connection with someone from the _outside_ world. When that someone failed to appear, he went to the pub. Draco went home disappointed. Again, his new friend was a no-show.

That's all she was. A friend. Even if he _had_ dreamed of slipping his fingers under her sweater. Of how her skin would feel beneath his hands—soft like rose petals. Of kissing the nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin. Of her slender body pressed against his. When he woke, his skin tingling from the memory of her touch, he had been on the verge of crying out to her. But nothing came. He didn't know her name—but at least he wasn't dreaming of Hermione. Or open graves.

After another restless night, he stood in front of his mirror. He'd been told all his life that he was a beautiful boy. That he'd have the world at his feet. That women would be falling over each other to take the Malfoy name. For once, Draco decided to be honest with himself. He wasn't that much of a prize anymore. He was only in his early twenties, but he could tell that his widow's peak was getting more pronounced. His nose was sharp. His face was angular. He'd never developed the broad shoulders that some of his peers had, nor had he gained the weight back that he'd lost in his sixth year at Hogwarts. He was—to tell the truth—rather gaunt.

_Gaunt_. A muscle in Draco's cheek twitched as a cavalcade of names ran through his mind.

_Gaunt. __Malfoy_. _Black. __Lestrange_. _Parkinson. __Crabbe. __Goyle __. __. __. __and__ the Dark Lord__._ Such wonderful allies. And now he didn't even stand to inherit a fortune. It was all gone. Why had he spent all these years waiting to find a witch who would give him a second look? _Maybe __a __Mudbl_—he cut himself off and took a deep breath. _Maybe __a __Muggle __is __the __best __I __can __do._

Draco thought again of the stranger from the bookstore. She wasn't that bad. Really, she was too pretty for him. She was smart. She _liked_ him. And he wanted her—he wanted her badly. If she'd have him.

"Why the hell not?" he said to himself. "Why the bloody hell not?"

His father was too drunk to care. His mother was so desperate for social acceptance in the new, liberal government that she might _welcome_ any ties he might make with a Muggle. She'd never protested Draco's little sojourns into the Muggle world. But he wouldn't risk their ire. If he ever found the bookstore-girl again, he'd wait a long time before bringing her home.

_If __I __ever __find __the __bookstore-girl __again?_ Draco's lips thinned. _No, _when _I __find __her __again_.

* * *

It was February 11th. Draco had already been to the bookstore, but his ingenue was not there. Then, he went to the pub, taking a seat near the window. Every time the bell tinkled, he looked up. Finally, she walked in.

Draco's mouth went dry. _Merlin,_ he thought_, __It's __like __I'm __sixteen __again_. But of course, he might as well have been. He hadn't touched a woman since fifth-year. _Too __busy._

_ She __must __never, __ever __know_.

Fortunately for Draco, the young woman saw him without him having to say a word. She greeted him shyly, even as she slipped into the booth beside him. Putting her feet up on the bench on the other side, she said she was glad to see him again.

"I've missed you," he blurted out.

"Missed me? It's only been two days." Her eyes sparkled.

In an alternate universe, Draco would have said something suave. In this one, he was too aware of her hip pressing against his. He was glad when the server asked for their order. Over the course of the evening, they drank far more than they should have. He hoped that it was for the same reason. Certainly, as the pint glasses piled up on the other side of the table, her hand began to wander, first to touch his arm, then his knee, and finally his thigh, where she left it, her fingers stroking his leg lightly.

Draco thought he'd go crazy, so he covered her hand with his.

"Ss-sh-_seriously_," he slurred. "What's your name?"

"I'm your mystery woman."

"You're very . . . "

"Forward?"

Draco nodded.

"Well," she waved her finger in front of his face. "I know what I want, and I want—"

Rather than finishing her thought, she touched the tip of Draco's nose. He blinked in surprise, and when she wobbled a bit, grabbed her shoulders.

Shaking her head a little, she continued. "My older sister told me—she told me—" suddenly she broke off again. "Thought you'd do more've th'work. Thought you'd kiss me . . . by now."

Again, Draco was struck by how delicate his Muggle friend looked. How vulnerable. And how very pretty. Carefully, he removed her glasses and placed them on the table. He put one hand under her chin and studied her eyes.

"I'm not a nice man," he said, gazing down at her mouth and at the bare skin exposed by her v-neck.

"S'ok."

"You sure?"

"Mmmm. Hmmm."

He shouldn't do it. The girl was young, and she was drunk, and she was a Mudb—a Muggle, and he was a wizard, and an evil wizard, and he didn't know what the hell he was doing. But he was touching her skin—which _was_ soft like rose petals, and her perfume was as intoxicating as the drinks had been. Her lips were parted, as if she wanted to ask him a question.

Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers. Their lips grazed, and Draco felt her hand behind his head, pulling him closer. He took a deep breath and sat back. _I can't allow this to happen_, he thought_, no matter how I want it. It's—depraved._ _Wrong. Sickening._

"Why?" she asked, running her fingers down his neck and to his arm. Draco couldn't tell her the real truth, so he decided to settle for a half-truth instead.

"You're drunk." She continued her caress down his forearm. "I'm drunk," he added. She turned his hand over and scraped her nails against his palm. "Your sister taught you—very—well."

He pulled his hand away and carefully put her glasses back on for her. He gave her a crooked smile and confessed that he sometimes wished he'd had an older brother. _I need one_, he thought_, just to figure out how to navigate a date with a nineteen year old. _He could never go to his father.

For some reason, his statement had made the girl crack up. Draco demanded to know why.

Choking on her laughter, she said, "I d-d-don't think there is room for more than one of you in our world."

"Our world?"

"Yeah . . ." she said, suddenly grave. "Our world. Our crazy, screwed-up disaster of a world." She hiccuped, and her head fell against his shoulder.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

**SHOUTOUTS:** Thank you to the following for reviewing: Blackrose Malfoy, Green Phantom Queen, YawningBrilliance, keeptheotherone, AnnaRavenheart, The Death Frisbee, kitkatritrat, TheProfool, Fire The Canon, Ralinde. Thanks also for new faves and followers! _Updated 2/9/13._


	2. Chapter 2

**Unthinkable Acts**

**Chapter**** Two**

It wasn't easy, but Draco managed to get his anonymous friend home. By the time the cab pulled up to her flat, she was coherent, though thoroughly soused. Although he wasn't much better, somehow they unlocked her door.

When she demanded another kiss, Draco complied. Unlike during the embrace they'd exchanged in the pub, he let her pull him closer. Her chest pressed against him and he could feel her breath against his cheek. Her hands slid from his back down to his hips, and his fingers got tangled in her hair. His heart pounded.

This time, she pulled away. As he looked down at her, Draco thought he was seeing double—no, triple. His sweet, nameless Muggle. Hermione Granger. And someone else. Someone he couldn't quite place. They were all merging before his eyes.

"Nine o'clock. Valentine's Day. Be here?" she said.

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She slipped through the doorway, watching him as she closed the door.

Once she disappeared, Draco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his pants. His stomach flip-flopped; he was nauseated. Draco wasn't sure if it was because he was nervous, or because he was drunk, or because he'd been kissing a Muggle.

_Oh, __Merlin. __He'd __been __kissing __a __Muggle. _He stumbled back to Diagon Alley to floo home.

* * *

Draco soon discovered that not even firewhiskey washed the sour taste out of his mouth. After three glasses, he put the bottle away. No point in following his father down _that_ road. He'd made that mistake before by joining the Dark Lord. Even now, when he looked at his arm, he expected to see the Dark Mark there. He'd taken to wearing long sleeves in the summertime.

Draco obsessed over the promise he'd made to return on Valentine's Day. Should he go? Could he bear what might happen _if _he went? Years ago, his disgust of Mudbloods had begun to change. As he had watched Granger trounce him, observed Neville Longbottom's hopeless performance in class, and gritted his teeth over the stupidity of Crabbe and Goyle, he had begun to doubt that Purebloods were that much better than Half-Bloods and Muggle-born wizards. Yet, he still feared polluting himself and his bloodlines. Fantasizing about a Muggle-born witch was bad enough. A real, live Muggle was entirely different.

Until now, his visits to London's more mundane neighborhoods had been rooted either in a morbid curiosity about the creatures he nearly helped destroy or a desire to be anonymous for a while.

Now, Draco was having a new nightmare. In it, he would awaken between tangled sheets with that Muggle sleeping beside him. As he struggled to free himself, he would look down to find himself caked in filth. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't get clean again.

For the next two days, Draco paced the halls of Malfoy Manor. He took his mood out on anyone who got in his way—person, painting, or elf.

"You've finally met a woman."

His mother's voice made him freeze in the middle of the portrait gallery. Every eye in the room turned to him.

The old refrain again. "What makes you think that?" he snapped, going on the defensive.

Narcissa looked at her son critically. "Oh, I don't know—maybe the way that you came stumbling home at midnight the other day, or the way you downed your father's whiskey, or the way you have been pushing your food around your plate like a six-year-old—"

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but before he could answer, his mum continued, "Or maybe—just maybe—I could guess from the circles under your eyes and the moon-calf expression you've been wearing. I know that look. Who is she?"

"Nobody."

"Who _is_ she?" Her voice was strident.

"Nobody!" Draco snapped. He wasn't lying. As far as his mum was concerned, the woman _was_ a nobody. "Who'd look at me, anyway?" he added bitterly.

"I could name a few. Pansy?"

Draco grunted with disgust.

"Pity. You never did warm up to her."

A few of the portraits shook their heads with regret.

"It's not . . . Millicent Bulstrode, is it?"

"Mother!"

Narcissa thanked Merlin, because "that cow" was as ugly as sin. It wouldn't do to bring her into the family.

"Susan Bones? A pretty girl, even if she _is_ a Half-Blood. She _was_ on the other side, though. Hm, a marriage to Amelia Bones's niece . . ."

Draco could imagine his mother calculating just how far the match would go to repair the Malfoy name. She must be desperate to consider _Susan Bones_. He studied the painting of his Grandfather Abraxas, who sneered at him. Draco sneered back.

Then, Abraxas's eyes widened. He whispered, "It's a Mudblood. He's in love with a Mudblood."

Within seconds, the portraits of his ancestors were shouting imprecations. Narcissa, of course, did not shout. She never raised her voice. But she did seize Draco's arm and spin him around.

"A Mudblood?" she said, then turned to hiss at the portraits. "My son is _not_ a traitor!"

Draco wrenched his arm from her grasp and walked away. She called after him.

"Draco, is it true? It will kill your father." He left his mother standing frozen, with a hundred screaming voices echoing around her.

_He would be better off dead_, Draco thought, striding out of the house. After experiencing Azkaban, bearing the brunt of the Dark Lord's ire, being ostracized, and going through two years of trials and even more years of drinking, his father was a shell of the man that Draco had idolized. The rage he'd once felt towards Mudbloods and Muggles turned towards the person who had taught him how to hate.

Maybe Draco didn't care for his father as much as he thought. Not anymore.

He retired to a distant part of the estate. Nowadays, much of their property was overgrown, and this spot was particularly wild. He sat with his back against a tree, leaned his head against the trunk, and closed his eyes. _She said that if I loved a Mudblood, it would kill my father_, he thought. _How much worse to love a Muggle . . ._

Of course, he _wasn't_ in love. It was too soon. If anything, he was "in like" or "in lust." But not "in love."

His mother's words rang in his ears. "_My son is not a traitor,_" and_ "Is it true? It will kill your father_." He opened his eyes. She'd said that loving a Mudblood would kill his father, but not that it would kill _her_. Moments before, she'd been ready to entertain a match between him and Susan Bones.

Yes, he reminded himself, Mum was desperate to prove to the wizarding world that the Malfoys were not bigots. She'd been the first to turn on the Dark Lord. She'd decided she could countenance a Half-Blood in the family. When Grandpa Abraxas had called him a blood-traitor, she'd denied it—but she hadn't refuted the charge that Draco just might love a Mudblood.

Nowadays, Draco's mother was the only thing holding their family together, and—swaying whichever way the political wind was blowing—she seemed more concerned with what her son's potential wife _looked like_ than who her parents were. Maybe Narcissa Malfoy was more liberal than he'd ever known.

Or maybe she was just more shallow.

But if she could accept a Muggle-born, maybe she could accept her son being with a Muggle—if she were a _pretty_ one.

Draco decided that he was looking forward to Valentine's Day after all.

* * *

Though he'd never been able to top Hermione Granger in classes, there were a few things at which Draco excelled. One of those things was research. Another was meticulous planning. Even though his first attempts on Dumbledore's life had been half-hearted disasters, the agonizing process of repairing the Vanishing Cabinet had required hours of painstaking work in the library as well as the Room of Requirement. Though he tortured himself over the crime he'd committed, he never could bring himself to be ashamed of the skill he'd shown in pulling off the Death Eaters' invasion.

Even Dumbledore had praised him.

After another sleepless night, Draco climbed out of bed determined that he would plan the most perfect Muggle Valentine's Day his friend had ever had. Yes, that's what he'd do, he vowed, pushing aside his nightmare about being covered in filth. Perhaps he scrubbed himself more vigorously than strictly necessary, leaving his pale skin red and raw, but he was undeterred. He _would_ celebrate his very first Valentine's Day with the woman who had made him laugh.

Draco strategized: First, he'd floo to Diagon Alley. Then, he'd exchange the galleons and sickles he'd squirreled away. After slipping on his best Muggle disguise, he'd go into that other part of London and ask questions. Draco Malfoy would approach any Muggle woman who would give him the time of day and ask—"What is your idea of a perfect Valentine?" It didn't matter who, as long as she was female. He would approach store clerks. Students. Mothers. Grandmothers. Teenagers hanging out in the shops. Little children, even.

He'd listen to their stories, and he'd make them all come true.

By mid-afternoon, Draco had spoken to more non-magical-people in one day than he had in the past five years combined. Every story was different. One old lady remembered her late husband's proposal of marriage (an idea Draco dismissed with a cringe). Several went into raptures over chocolate. A smelly woman with a pushcart full of pet food recounted how her sweetie had given her a kitten. Although Draco resisted wrinkling his nose until the woman had walked away, he decided not to buy any kind of live animal, no matter how cute. In a toy store, he found an adorable, plush, silver and green snake. Since a Muggle would never understand its significance to the Malfoys, it would be an acceptable gift.

Mentally, Draco ticked off his purchases.

Cute stuffed animal, check.

Romantic card, check.

Original poem, check.

Belgian chocolates in a heart shaped box, check.

A dozen roses.

Romantic music.

Suit and tie.

Check, check, check.

A bottle of wine—

Draco hesitated, remembering what had happened the last time they'd gotten drunk together. But what harm could _one_ bottle do?

Fine red wine, check.

Freshly churned ice-cream, check.

That was his final purchase. He hoped it wouldn't melt before he got it to the girl's _defigurator_, or whatever Muggles used to keep ice cream cold. By nine o'clock, when he arrived at the bookstore-girl's flat, his arms were piled so high with gifts that he could barely reach her doorbell.

Perhaps he'd overdone it, but it was too late. He could hear her footsteps. The door opened slightly, and her blue eyes peered through. Draco leaned his head, looking past the massive pile of gifts.

"You came!" she said, opening the door the rest of the way. "I didn't think you would."

"A promise is a promise." He pushed away memories of promises he _hadn't_ kept.

"Well, thank God I decided to clean just in case. This way." She indicated a staircase, which Draco climbed, packages precariously balanced in his arms. When he walked into her flat, he indicated the bag on top with his chin.

"Ice cream. Better put it in the defigurator right away."

She blinked, but took the bag and headed for another room. Calling over her shoulder, she told Draco to put the rest of the packages down. He carefully set each gift on the table in front of her couch. Then, with a sinking feeling, he knew what he'd forgotten.

_Candles. I forgot the bloody candles. _

Draco sighed. It wasn't like he could just _Accio!_ them. He always left his wand behind when he went into Muggle London. Even if he had had it, it wouldn't do to have the Department of Improper Use of Magic show up. Maybe his friend had some candles already. _So much for a perfect Valentine's Day . . ._

Soon, she returned with a vase. Just as she reached for the roses, she looked Draco up and down. Then, she choked with laughter.

"A—a—a bowtie? _Really_? Those things have been out of style for decades!"

Draco blushed. Come to think of it, the woman who had gone on and on about her beau's polka-dot bowtie _had _been ancient. Maybe he shouldn't have followed her advice quite so precisely.

"But then again, you do look rather—" She seemed to search for a word. "—_dapper_. I like a traditional man."

The Malfoys were nothing if not traditional, Draco reflected, but that characteristic wasn't going to work in their favor. For now, if she liked the bowtie, he was okay with looking a little foolish. Now, the girl was surveying the stack of presents.

"Oh dear," she murmured, "all I've got for you is wine and cheese."

He'd _definitely_ overdone the "perfect Valentine's Day" thing. Draco made a mental note that sometimes you could do too much research. And he still had the card to make out!

"Do you have a pen?" He knew about pens from shopping in Muggle stores, though quills felt better in his hand. After shuffling though a few drawers, she handed him one. He bent over the card, poised to write.

"I need to know your name," he said.

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"I don't like to tell people my name."

"Well, neither do I," he said, impatience creeping into his voice. He wanted to get this _right_, and the Muggle was making it difficult. If she wasn't so pretty—if she didn't make him laugh—if she didn't remind him of Granger—he might have walked out.

"Then I guess we're at an impasse." Her voice was calm as she uncorked the bottle of wine.

"I need to finish your card," he snapped.

"You don't need my name for that," she said, just as sharply. Putting the glasses of wine on the endtables, she commented, "You really _are_ a perfectionist."

There was a certain _familiarity_ in her voice—almost as if she knew him already. Strange. But then, perhaps he'd made his perfectionism obvious.

Draco's hand was still hovering over the card. When it came to names, he knew he'd have to yield first even if it went against his inclinations. After signing the card, he handed it to her. Then, he gulped down some wine.

"A poem!" she exclaimed. There was no mistaking the pleasure in her voice. Suddenly, Draco was glad he'd spent so much time at Hogwarts writing songs to mock Potter. At last, all that nastiness had paid off.

After a moment, she turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "_Draco Malfoy_? What kind of name is that?"

He drank more before answering her.

"A rare one."

"To say the least. From the French: '_Bad faith_.' Not very promising," she observed.

"I told you that I'm not a nice man."

"Do you put so much stock in names?"

Draco nodded. "Sometimes the label shapes the man." _Slytherin_. _Malfoy_. _Riddle_. _Voldemort._

_Draco_.

"But your first name—" the girl continued, "_that_ is better. 'Draco.' A cluster of stars in the sky—a constellation, far, far away—something to look up to from below. Something that never deigns to look back at you." Her expression was dreamy.

"I've always thought of dragons rather than stars," he said. As a child, he'd seen dragons as magnificent creatures, and as a man, as dangerous beasts.

"The Chinese worship dragons."

"No one worships me."

The woman looked at the overflowing table. "Keep this up, and someone might."

The edginess that had been in her voice earlier had vanished. Now, when she looked at him, her expression was one of unqualified trust. Draco's bowtie felt tight, and he pulled on it with a finger.

"So—" Draco said, trailing off.

"So—?"

"I've told you my name—"

"Thank you."

"Now you tell me yours."

She rose and went towards the door. "How about I get the cheese and you set out the candles? Look in the end-table, right over there."

"I'm not going to leave until you tell me your name." Draco could hear his voice rising despite himself.

"Good. That means you'll be here for a long time."

Sighing, Draco began to arrange the candles around the room. He hoped she wouldn't ask him to light them. He'd never done that without a wand.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

**SHOUTOUTS:** Thank you to keeptheotherone, kitkatritrat, and ditzen1 for reviewing. Thanks also for the new faves and followers! _Updated 2/9/13._


	3. Chapter 3

**UNTHINKABLE ACTS**

**Chapter Three**

Draco prayed that his inexperience wouldn't show.

Now he knew the roiling in his stomach wasn't from disgust, or even the copious amounts of wine, cheese, chocolate, and ice-cream they'd consumed. When the Muggle nestled against him, he knew his nerves came from fear and desire, not disgust and loathing—at least, not for now. He'd deal with the disgust . . . another time.

He wanted to kick himself. Despite his resolution, they had drunk too much. At least this time he could still think clearly. As they leaned against each other in silence, he could smell the wine on her breath and imagine how it would taste it on her lips. His breath quickened—and so did hers. How had he gotten himself in this situation again? He'd promised himself he wouldn't.

But their descent into the danger zone had begun several hours ago, when they'd finished the wine he'd brought. His little bookstore-girl had fetched a bottle of her own then. After some rattling of unseen cabinets, she had returned with the exact same brand and vintage that he'd picked. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe a mere coincidence. Or . . . maybe the girl had excellent taste.

_And she has money_, Draco realized. The wine was top-shelf. _Strange. You wouldn't know it from her flat. _The room was painted a dull grey-white and sparsely furnished: Sagging couch. Scratched-up tables. A _tell-a-vision_ on top of a crate. Several posters tacked to the wall—reproductions of paintings of romantic scenes, like _that _one, from that play he'd read—the one with the girl watching a ship capsizing during a storm.

"Not much to look at, is it?" she said. When he didn't answer, the girl continued, "University students aren't _supposed_ to live in luxury, you know."

"Could you if you wanted to?" Draco thought of the crumbling wing and overgrown lawns at Malfoy Manor. He also remembered the cashmere sweater she'd been wearing the first time he'd met her in the bookstore—and how he'd longed to touch it.

"Yes. I could." She swirled the wine in the bowl of her glass. "But I wanted to experience the real world, at least for a few years. The world that everyone else knows. My family—they have too much money and—" she paused, "—some social stature. People would look at me differently if they knew."

"Is that why you won't tell me who you are?"

She set her glass down. After a silence, she whispered, "Yes."

For the first time, Draco sensed that his sweet little bookstore-girl was concealing something. But then again, she couldn't know that the names of wealthy Muggle socialites would be meaningless to him. All in all, her reason for wanting to be anonymous was _better_ than his own. There were plenty of Muggles with strange names—names no stranger than his own. Plus, he'd seen racks and racks of yellow journalism in Muggle newsstands. No one knew better than him that fame and notoriety were painful.

He decided to change the subject.

"What do you study—at university?"

"History. If you don't understand the past, you're doomed to repeat it."

"And what are you afraid of repeating?"

"War." The word hung in the air as the Muggle looked Draco in the eye. "You wouldn't believe how many wars there have been in the last two centuries," she continued. "Mass executions—the extermination of millions of people, just because they are part of a particular religious or ethnic group. The invention of weapons that can wipe away cities. Near conflicts that could have destroyed the planet."

The shock must have registered on Draco's face. _Muggles_ had weapons that could destroy the world? _Their_ world? The same world that they shared with the magical community?

"Didn't you know that, Draco? In all your reading, didn't you ever pick up a history book?"

He hadn't. He'd read fiction. Muggle philosophy. Drama. But not history. He'd wanted to get into the Muggles' heads—to learn how they ticked—or merely to escape into worlds that had no reality for him. He hadn't cared to make sense of their shifting geographical borders or petty politics.

"No, I guess you haven't." She shook her head sadly. "All that time in that bookstore, and you never looked into the past. I suppose you've never read a psychology book?"

Draco hadn't done that, either.

She let out a deep chuckle. "What crack-pot school did you go to, you wally? Try reading Freud. Even better—Jung."

He didn't understand a word she was saying, except that there was a whole world of knowledge he'd never known existed. Draco Malfoy, the second strongest student at Hogwarts, proud researcher and problem-solver, was woefully ignorant. He needed to drink more. He needed to deflect their conversation to a safer topic, one that didn't make him look like a fool.

"I finished _Pride and Prejudice_." He spilled wine on his shirt. Long ago, he'd discarded the suit jacket and bowtie.

"Oh? What did you think? Too saccharine?"

"Too unrealistic."

She raised an eyebrow.

Prodded, Draco stumbled on. "It's Elizabeth—she _hated_ Darcy until she saw how rich he was." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "What kind of love is that? Love that is based on—on fortune and title, and how handsome the hero's portrait is."

_And the praise of a faithful housekeeper._ Draco doubted he'd get such glowing testimony from the Malfoy House Elves. He ran a hand through his hair, noticing yet again much less of it there was than five years earlier.

"I see," was the Muggle's only response. She waited for him to go on.

"And then there's Darcy. He couldn't . . . _change_ . . . so fast. He's too old, too set in his ways. It isn't realistic. He'd have to give up everything—and ruin his sister's future. Who'd do that for—a—a—_nobody_?"

"Who, indeed?" the girl murmured. "Draco, I think you've missed the point. Besides, Darcy is barely twenty-seven. A young man—hardly locked into his ways. Don't you believe in redemption?"

_Redemption_?

"Not for everyone." _Not for me_.

"Perhaps you should try _Les Miserables _next. Erm . . . I suggest the abridged version."

* * *

Two more glasses of wine and several hours later, there he was, praying that his inexperience wouldn't show. Over the course of the evening, they'd fallen into a companionable silence. Now, the woman's legs were draped across his lap, her head laying on his shoulder. Her glasses were digging into him, but Draco didn't mind. After all, her hair was tickling his cheek, her breath smelled like wine and chocolate, and her cardigan was half unbuttoned, revealing the lacy chemise beneath.

His mind was awhirl. The press of her body against his own—the sight of her collarbone and the lace which barely concealed her breasts—was making Draco's body respond. He could feel the blood running downwards and hoped that the girl hadn't noticed. He tried to shift her body to the side, hoping she wouldn't feel his arousal.

He wanted to kiss her. He imagined how easy it would be to tilt her chin up, feel the surprising softness of her lips again, and taste the wine and chocolate. But without the spur of her plea for a kiss or the euphoria of complete intoxication, Draco was—as usual—frozen. He couldn't get his reputation at Hogwarts out of his head.

_ Lothario_. _Casanova._ The most promiscuous boy in their year. The beautiful blond pureblood who had taken Pansy against a pillar in the courtyard right in the middle of the Yule Ball. Who had forced himself on Sally-Anne Perks, the only Muggle-born in Slytherin, just to teach her a lesson. Draco Malfoy, reputed father of numerous illegitimate children, including, some said, a secret whelp of Hermione Granger's, born during her and Potter's long absence during their seventh year. Draco Malfoy, who had spent his summers going from Wizarding club to Wizarding club, clad in leather pants and a see-through shirt to entice innocent witches to join the Dark Lord's cause.

All lies. The truth was that he was just Draco Malfoy, hopeless virgin. But maybe not for long. This Muggle didn't know about his reputation. Nor could she know about his inexperience. Not if he didn't tell her.

_ Oh Merlin, I'll have to tell her_. _But not yet._

When he tightened his arm around her shoulder, the bookstore-girl sighed. Taking this as encouragement, Draco touched her hair. So soft, such an—an—interesting texture. She had put it up so just a few tendrils escaped to frame her face. When he traced one of them down until his fingers brushed her cheek, she looked up at him. Her eyes were glowing—perhaps from the alcohol—but they were also unclouded.

"Would you like me to take it down?"

Draco nodded, watching as she slipped back onto the couch and started pulling some kind of pins out of her hair. Gradually, the curls tumbled down. She smoothed her hair self-consciously before meeting his eyes.

"Do you—want to touch it?" In her words, he heard something else: _Do you want to touch me_?

Draco reached out and gingerly put his hand on top of her head. Stroking her hair, he felt foolish—like he was petting a cat, not seducing a woman. But when she slid closer, he buried his hand in the curls at the base of her head. The gesture pulled her face up sharply. Her eyes widened. It must have hurt. He hadn't meant to do that, so he tried to pull his hand free.

That only made things worse. His fingers were tangled in her hair, and the more he tried to remove them, the worse it got.

"Ouch! Ouch!" she cried. "Let me."

Reaching up, the Muggle carefully freed Draco's hand.

"That always happens," she said, "I hate my hair."

"It's beautiful." _And not at all like Hermione's_. _Darker, thicker, a starker contrast with her pale skin_.

She gave him a crooked grin. "Once, in a club, a guy did that, and he was screaming before he managed to get his hand free. He _was_ cute, though. Perhaps I didn't want to let him go." When she winked, Draco felt a stab of jealousy.

Jealousy over a Muggle. _Unbelievable_. _It must be the wine_.

But he knew it wasn't, and he knew, somehow, that the best way to get rid of the jealousy was to kiss her. After all, _that_ was the last thing he had to check off his list: the perfect Valentine's Day kiss.

Somewhere, a clock began to chime: _one_, _two_. And there _they_ were, just the two of them, alone together. No father glowering over his shoulder. No mother calculating her political stature. No sneering peers to dismiss Draco for losing his fortune, or being a coward, or living like a recluse. It was just him and a woman who trusted him.

Then, Draco realized that he trusted her_._ He _trusted_ her.

Finally, his fears disappeared. Maybe redemption was possible. Maybe he could overcome everything. And maybe this girl—this one, delicate girl—was the key. As his lips pressed down on hers, he felt her respond. But now he didn't just want to kiss her—he wanted to thank her. To cherish her. As she drew nearer, he kissed her chin, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her eyes, her hair, her temples, the nape of her neck—forgetting all his anxiety about being inadequate.

Then, she pulled his mouth back to hers. Their kiss was more intense than any he'd experienced before—those few, sloppy ones he'd exchanged with Pansy and the more memorable one he'd received from that Beauxbatons girl. Before he knew what was happening, his anonymous savior had climbed onto his lap. Her hands wandered to his shirt and began to unbutton it, reaching underneath to caress his collarbone tentatively. Encouraged, Draco pushed the cardigan off her shoulders and ran his fingers down her arm the way she had done two nights before. Once again, he was amazed by how soft and yielding her flesh was. Then, she shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No," she breathed, "It feels good."

So Draco did it again.

That night, Draco did many things he'd never done before. At last, he found himself kneeling next to the couch. She looked down at him, hair loose about her shoulders and lips swollen from their kisses. Draco even thought he saw raw places on her skin where his five-o'clock-shadow had scratched her. _I'll have to shave next time._

_ Next time._

That's when he said the most difficult words he had ever spoken—words he could hardly bring himself to speak aloud:

"I trust you. For some reason—I _trust_ you. Like I've never trusted anyone before."

Draco thought he saw a terrible sadness flicker in the girl's eyes.

"Thank you," she answered, touching his cheek. "I hope I deserve it."

* * *

It was four in the morning, and Draco was putting on his rumpled shirt and jacket. Although he had set out to create a perfect Valentine's Day for his Muggle, he suspected that, instead, he had made a perfect one for himself. Only one thing could make the night better. As his bookstore-girl led him outside, he blocked the door.

"I understand now why you won't tell me your name," he said, "But before I go, tell me what I can call you."

"Why? 'A rose by any other name—'"

"'—Would smell as sweet,' Yes, I've read that, too. Even without a girlfriend. No matter what—" he paused, reaching for the name, "—_Shakespeare _said, I need _something_, so I know what to call you . . . when I dream."

The girl flushed. Draco felt color rising in his face, too.

"When you dream?" the girl whispered, looking down. Draco could see her lowered lashes behind her glasses. "Very well," she said. "You can call me 'Starling.' It's my nickname—what I'm called by everyone who loves me best. And everyone _I_ love best."

_Starling._ He remembered how tiny her hand was in his own, the way the bones and veins were visible through her skin. She was so thin that her arms did, indeed, resemble the wings of a bird. He must not be the one to break her. He couldn't bear it.

"Starling," he whispered, kissing her wrist. "My little starling."

He walked back to Diagon Alley, ready to face his mother's inevitable questions. Behind him, his 'little starling' watched him from a window, her hands grasping the frame until her knuckles turned white.

* * *

"Master Draco? Madame Narcissa requires you in the breakfast room at once—"

Draco rolled over. It was a House Elf who had rudely awakened him. He had expected something like this, but with so little sleep he was in no state for one of his mother's interrogations. Not at this hour. And certainly not after _that_ dream. He willed himself back into Starling's arms.

But it was not to be.

"Master Draco? Master Draco, please?"

Draco tried to remember which of the dozens of House Elves was standing before him. _Hermy_—that _was_ its name, wasn't it? Another one of Father's little jokes, naming a House Elf after the Mudblood who'd bested his son in class. Draco rarely bothered to look an elf in the face, especially not this one.

When he threw his legs over the side of the bed, keeping the coverlet over his lap, the elf cringed. Draco realized with surprise and a little distaste that a few days ago, its instinct would have been right. He would have struck it just for interrupting a pleasant dream.

"Cold water," he croaked. "_Ice cold_."

As the creature hurried to bring him everything he required, he saw how the fear never left its face. He'd never noticed that before—never even bothered to look. Then, he remembered his bitter thought from the night before—that one about how no House Elf would ever give glowing testimony about a Malfoy.

When the elf finished preparing his bath, he managed to frighten it even more with two simple words:

"Thank you."

Hermy backed away.

"No, don't go!"

The elf froze. After all, it—no, she—was compelled to do so. Still clutching his coverlet, Draco tested the bath with one toe. _Merlin_, _that's cold_. Just what he'd asked for. Cringing, he climbed in.

"Hermy—that's your name, right?" He spoke between clenched teeth. The elf nodded. "Do you _like_ serving the Malfoys? Being bound to us?"

She started to open her mouth, but before she could say yes, he ordered her to tell the truth.

"N-n-no, Master Draco, Hermy doesn't likes it. Hermy gets beaten, sir, no matter what she does."

"Do you _want_ to be free?"

"Master—"

"The truth," he snapped.

"Hermy always wantsed to be free. But it be a pleasure to serve you, Master—"

Draco waved a hand and ordered the elf to be silent, but to remain where she was. After she handed him his robe—silk, but a bit worn where the embroidery was unravelling—he asked the question he'd been turning over in his head.

"If I gave you your freedom, Hermy, would you stay with me? If I treated you well—if I got you more food,"—He'd noticed that she was dirty and emaciated—"Would you help me . . . of your own . . . free will?" The last two words stuck in his throat. It was an unnatural thing to say to a House Elf.

"Master?" Her eyes were wide as she started to back away.

"My pants," Draco ordered. The elf had no choice but approach him again. Once he'd put them on, he tossed his soggy robe into Hermy's hands. "That's for you."

"For me? Clothes? _For me_?"

"It's big, I know, but I'm sure something can be done about that. And—if you agree—" Again, the words did not come easily, "I'd like you to stay at Malfoy Manor, but just serve me." He pulled on a shirt.

"Of my own free wills?"

Draco waved his hand as he strode towards the door. "Yes, yes! Of your own free will! I gave you my favorite robe, didn't I?"

As went out, he could hear Hermy's voice behind him: "Yes, Master! Yes, Master Draco! My very own clothes! Oh, Master Draco, my own clothes!" She sounded almost . . . tearful.

But enough of that. At least now, if he ever brought his Starling home, there would be _one_ creature who would have something good to say about him. As for the rest of the elves, he swore never to throw anything heavy at them again.

Unless they _really _got in his way.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:** Many thanks to my advisor/romance-expert-extraordinaire, Ruth!

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

**52 WEEKS OF WRITING COMPULSORY PROMPT: **Drunk.

**SHOUTOUTS:** Thank you to keeptheotherone, Amelia Letter, and kitkatritrat taking the time to leave reviews! I also want to thank all those who took time to favorite or follow this story. _Updated 2/9/13._


	4. Chapter 4

**UNTHINKABLE ACTS**

**Chapter Four**

"Oh, Merlin. It's Hermione Granger. You are having an affair with _Hermione Granger_."

Draco had escaped his mother's questions during breakfast simply because his father had been there. For the first time in years, Draco welcomed Lucius's presence. Usually, his dad was still keeled over his desk at that hour, allowing his wife and son time for a cozy _tête-à-tête_. Narcissa couldn't question Draco about women with her husband there. Long ago, he'd convinced himself that Pansy had joined the family. He tended to converse with an empty chair, asking how the pregnancy was coming along: a disconcerting spectacle, one step away from the _grand guignol_. All Lucius needed was an icepick to make the scene complete.

Draco crammed down his breakfast and escaped—not forgetting to grab a heel of bread and a leftover orange for Hermy—before his dad finished his spiked coffee and retreated for further fortification. Upon returning to his room, Draco had been horrified at how Hermy had torn into the food. Rather than face her, he busied himself with shrinking the robe to smaller proportions. It wouldn't do for his elf to go about tripping on her hems.

He should have expected this confrontation. Of _course _a House Elf wandering around the Manor in Draco's robe was bound to attract attention. Now, he was face to face with his mother, who'd dragged the unfortunate creature all the way to Draco's sanctuary at the far corner of the estate.

"Her name is Hermione _Weasley_ now, as well you know," Draco responded. He had never understood why she'd changed her name. Not the sort of thing he would have expected of her.

"_Oh sweet Merlin in Camelot_. Hermione Granger." Narcissa ignored her son's correction. "This will ruin us. Have you forgotten how powerful that family's gotten? She's _married_ to one of those ginger robe-climbers—granted, a rather pitiful specimen, even for _that_ family. I can understand why she'd step out on _him_, but I thought you had better sense, Draco Malfoy!"

"An affair with _her_?" he drawled, "Ridiculous. I can't imagine what's gotten into you."

"_This_!" she yanked on the House Elf's arm. "This—_abomination_." Narcissa's new-found tolerance did not, it seemed, extend to magical creatures. She grasped Draco's robe, dragging it off the elf's shoulder. "What do you call _this_?"

"Appropriate livery for my . . . erm, foot-elf?"

Hermy was struggling to pull her treasured garment back on. "Master Draco, Hermy wantses to kick Madame Narcissa."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"But Hermy is a _free_ _elf_ . . . with her own free wills!" Then and there, she kicked her tormentor in the shin and vanished.

Narcissa sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

"Granger, Granger. A married woman. Who else could make you free a House Elf? We'll never survive the scandal. Oh, Merlin, tell me how to escape from _this _knotted oak!"

Draco toyed with the idea of letting his mother continue in her error, but really, he loved her too much. He insisted that there was no affair, that Hermione _Weasley_ had no interest in him, and that he'd freed the elf for experimental purposes.

Laying back in the grass, he added, "Besides, it would be nice, for once, to have a creature who is entirely devoted to me."

"That," Narcissa insisted, "is what a wife is for."

"Didn't work out well for you, though, did it, Mum?"

In the long silence that ensued, Draco could feel her studying him. She rose and fastidiously brushed the dry grass from her robes.

"No, Draco. It didn't work for me. But traditions are hard to break, so we inflict them on our children—no matter how pernicious they are. Darling, choose better than I did. Hard as it may be to believe, I do want you to be happy."

She turned back to the Manor before adding, "I suggest keeping that 'foot-elf' far from your father, or your 'experiment' will be . . . short-lived."

* * *

The problems with falling in love with a Muggle were manifold: First, as a student, Starling had seemingly endless readings, essays, and tutorials to contend with. That, she explained, was why she only appeared in their little bookstore a few days a week. She also refused to have Draco over unless she invited him. Something about her family dropping by a _little too often._

Second, once he got to her flat, Draco had to navigate it; there, he was constantly surrounded by Muggle technology he had no clue how to use. _At least_, he thought, _I already knew how to operate a toilet_. Thankfully, his little starling always got to the Muggle gadgets first. As he watched how they worked, he learned his way around.

Third, there was his constant restlessness. When Draco wasn't sitting in the bookstore trying to wade through that damned Hugo book (he'd insisted on reading the _unabridged_ version), he was pacing the library in Malfoy Manor. The disgust he'd felt at the thought of touching Starling had all but disappeared. Instead, he struggled with other feelings: He wanted happiness for himself, but not to break his mother's heart. He wanted to be with Starling, but he didn't want to give her false hope. He wanted to have sex with her, but he didn't want to disappoint her.

He wanted to confide his secrets to her . . .

But he didn't want her to turn away in disgust.

A month passed, and he and Starling fell into a comfortable routine. Whenever she was free, she'd find him in the bookstore. They would drink tea and debate each other. Afterwards, they'd go somewhere together: to walk in a park, to ride a carousel or a roller coaster (which were, of course, _nothing_ compared to a broomstick), or to eat a cheap meal of cornish pasties or fish 'n' chips. Twice, they even went to see Muggle theatre: first, _The Tempest _and then, when Starling despaired of Draco finishing Hugo's opus, the musical adaptation of _Les Miserables_.

Draco recognized his little bird was relentless about her theme: redemption. When he questioned her, she indicated that she was in the midst of a long-term project and that their discussions were "quite illuminating." _Research for university_, Draco concluded. If it was useful, he'd debate with her.

But how could he help it if he identified with the rigid and traditional Javert more than Valjean or Enjolras, with their starchy saintliness and inconceivable valor? Yet, at the same time, Starling's blind faith—her hope that any wounded or tarnished being could be reborn—gave Draco hope. Exactly what kind of man did she think could be saved?

Little by little, he had started to believe that without Starling, he would be damned to a lifetime of loneliness. Therefore, he decided to turn the tables on his little bird. Now, _he_ would ask the questions in order to discover whether he could ever reveal his secrets to her. Since he'd realized that his little starling loved the Bard, he'd kept a copy of his complete works hidden under his bed. He read it when insomnia struck—and it struck often.

_Well, Shakespeare is as good a place to start as any._

"Could you love a man like Antonio? An—assassin—who betrayed his family, his country, and his people—just for power? Can a man like _him_ be redeemed?" he said as they cuddled in their pub.

"Well, do you think he ever changed?"

Draco hesitated, trying to remember exactly how the play ended. "No," he concluded. "He's the only one who said nothing. He had—no remorse."

"Then I could never love him."

"What about Richard III?"

"My, my. Quite the Shakespearian, aren't we?"

"I've _always_ liked drama," Draco countered sharply. It irked him when she was surprised he knew something about literature—probably because he was so ignorant about other parts of the Muggle world.

"Hm," Starling jested, pulling out a small notebook and pen. "Draco Malfoy, lover of drama. Would that be reading drama, watching drama, or _creating_ drama?"

"Richard III," Draco repeated, tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

"I do rather fancy hunchbacks."

Draco threw himself back in his seat and made a strangled sound. By now, Starling actually _had _given him a headache—just as she'd promised the day they'd met. "Not the hunchback part, little bird. You know that's not what I meant."

"Yes, I know," she said. After a few moments of thought, she said "Do you remember this passage?"

"_O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!_

_What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by. _

_Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. _

_Is there a murderer here? No—yes—I__ am. _

_Then fly. What, from myself__? Lest I revenge_

_ Myself upon myself! Alack, I _love_ myself. _

_ Wherefore? For any good that I have done? _

_O, no! Alas, I rather hate myself _

_For hateful deeds committed by myself! _

_My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, _

_And every tongue brings in a several tale, _

_And every tale condemns me for a villain._

"Slightly abridged and butchered, I fear, but it'll do. He had a conscience, knew himself in the end, and died bravely." Starling looked satisfied with her recitation.

"He said something else after that, you know."

When she gave Draco an inquiring glance, he supplied her with the next part of the tyrant's speech:

"_I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; _

_And if I die no soul will pity me: _

_And wherefore should they, since that I myself _

_Find in myself no pity to myself?_"

"That's enough," Starling cut him off, her eyes welling over. "Please. I can't bear to hear another word."

They parted ways early that night.

* * *

Returning home meant enduring an excruciating meal. The Malfoys observed the old custom of dining in the vast, medieval Great Hall. The room's stone walls were still scarred from the Dark Lord's magic, as was the heavy oak table. Draco hated that table. He could never eat there without remembering Charity Burbage floating upside-down above it—or the moment her pleading eyes had caught his own.

As usual, Narcissa was sitting erect and elegant at the foot of the table. His father slumped at its head. Tonight, he was leaning forward, his elbows on the table and a few drops of bisque on the front of his robe. Draco was, of course, stuck in the middle.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" Lucius slurred. "Draco—always a disappointment, but at least _he_ had the sense to marry a pureblood. Utter failure, still don't know why you took him."

Narcissa silently cut a piece of roast beef. Not that her silence mattered. Apparently, 'Pansy Malfoy' had plenty to say to her father-in-law about the latest gossip. Lucius responded:

"Quite right, sweetheart. Her parents are quite right to disown her. Knew MacDougal would turn her out, soon as I heard. The little bitch. The MacDougal spawn were Mudblood-lovers all along."

Narcissa glanced at her son. The light of the candelabra on his face was like a spotlight. There was no place to hide.

"Lucius heard a rumor today," she clarified. "Apparently, Isobel MacDougal is in a delicate condition. She's been having an affair with a Muggle."

Draco froze, fork half-way to his mouth.

"No—no, not a rumor. 'S a fact. Whelping a Muggle's brat. Says she's going to marry the trash. Yes, threw her out, MacDougal did. Do the same myself, if my grandson turns out such a fool. He won't, though," he said, face flushed with drink. "Good blood—clean pedigree."

_He might as well be talking about breeding Kneazles_.

Draco remembered the MacDougal girls. Isobel, the older one, had been sorted into Ravenclaw. As he recalled, she was a tiny thing with a profusion of freckles. There'd already been an uproar when the girl refused the marriage her parents had arranged for her. At the time, Draco had been stunned that such a waif could endure the wrath of Victor MacDougal. Maybe her Muggle was the reason.

_Thank Merlin Father thinks I'm already married_.

"Apparently," Narcissa said, her voice cool. "The girl claims that it's a love-match." Draco struggled to swallow a bite of his dinner.

"A _love-match_."

Lucius wasn't far enough gone to spit on the floor, but he looked like he wanted to. For the rest of the meal, he performed his favorite monologue: "When the Dark Lord Returns." Always the same. Family honor. Loyalty. Dirty blood. Obedience. Half-blood this, Half-Blood that. Mudbloods. Those damned Weasleys. Granger. _Filth_.

Tonight, he added a coda: Disobey. Disown. Disinherit.

These were the natural consequences of Draco's actions, if his father ever guessed his secret. Draco decided that he wouldn't be seeing Starling anymore, coward that he was. Thank Merlin he hadn't had sex with her yet. He could have ended up just like Isobel MacDougal. Tainted. Cast aside. Condemned to live his life in some disgusting little flat. Cut off from everything he'd ever known. Unable to know whether his children would turn out to be Malfoy Squibs.

When Draco escaped the Great Hall, for the first time since he'd freed Hermy he forgot to bring her food. One more broken promise to add to the list. Although the surprise showed on her face, Draco didn't go back downstairs. He might run into his father.

Anyway, if Hermy couldn't go to the kitchen without feeling the wrath of the other elves . . . well, it wasn't his problem, was it?

* * *

That night, the dreams started again. At first, they were the same as before: the grave, the faces looming over the edge, the dust burning his eyes, the withered rose petals with their sickly perfume. But as the days and weeks passed, the dream changed. He was in the same grave, his father, mother, and peers sneering down at him. He struggled to move—to break free—to tell them that he was alive inside. But he couldn't—he was bound. Then, another face would appear.

_Starling._

When Draco opened his mouth to call to her, dirt fell into it, choking him. Through his watering eyes, he could make out her face. Regretful. Disappointed. Her mouth was a hard little line—not at all like the lips he'd kissed so often. Then, she would reach out her hand. She was the one with the rose petals, but now, as she sprinkled them into his grave, they transformed into stones. Each night, she poured more down upon him until he found himself buried under boulders.

Night after night, he woke in terror. His only comfort was Hermy, who would rush out of the closet she'd transformed into her own refuge. Draco was glad he'd freed her, and he swore he'd never forget to bring her food again.

After a few weeks, Lucius's rants about Isobel MacDougal tapered off. By then, the dark circles under Draco's eyes were beginning to frighten his mother, who followed him around the Manor like a shadow—never speaking, always watching. He needed to escape, but when he went to Diagon Alley he could feel the stares of the other witches and wizards.

Unable to bear their scrutiny, Draco did what he'd been doing for the past five years: He fled his parents and peers by hiding in the Muggle world. Habits are hard to break, after all. For a whole week, he avoided all the places he and Starling had frequented. Then, he started revisiting them: The shop where they'd had fish 'n' chips that night. The place where they'd kissed under an oak tree. The amusement park. Draco watched the Muggle children laughing as their parents supported them on decidedly non-magical horses, unicorns, and griffins.

Those families' happiness—happiness they had even without magic—made Draco more wretched.

He began to wander past his and Starling's bookstore. At first, he stayed on the far side of the street, glancing into the windows quickly as he passed. She was always there. Then, he began to lurk out of sight to study her. Her eyes were as bruised as his own.

Finally, he did the last thing he should have. He crossed the street and passed right by the window. As he did, Starling looked up. Draco could see hope spring into her eyes, even behind her glasses. But he turned his face and walked away as fast as he could. _Always, always a coward when it counts the most_. Draco could feel his heart breaking.

That night, his dream was a variation on the _other_ one—the one he'd had when he first realized that he was lusting after a Muggle. Yet, it, too, was different. Now, he dreamt that he woke up alone, covered in the same foul-smelling filth. Now it was clear to him that the Muggle hadn't been responsible for it. _He was_. He'd spent his entire lifetime contaminating himself.

Then, _she _appeared, beckoning to him. He kneeled at her feet, and she wiped the scum away. When it was gone, his little bird tilted his head up, kissed him, and whispered:

"You can be forgiven, Draco. Just make things right."

Then, he was awake. He knew he had to find a way to fix what he'd done—but _how_? Reaching under the bed, he retrieved the heavy volume that he hadn't touched since that last, painful conversation with Starling.

Draco flipped the yellow pages until he found the history plays.

* * *

It was three in the morning. Draco was standing in the portrait gallery, shirtless—a penitent. He shivered, imagining the tempest that he was about to conjure with his words. Most of the portraits were dozing, but one peered at him through a half-open eye: Phineas Nigellus Black, who rarely seemed pleased with his Malfoy company.

Draco stepped towards his ancestor and took a deep breath.

"Oh coward conscience," he whispered, "How thou dost afflict me."

"Oh rudest impling, how thou dost afflict _me_!" the portrait snapped back.

"Draco loves Draco—"

"So I've heard. Revolting. And for Merlin's sake, put a shirt on. You're hurting my eyes."

"Is there a murderer here? No—yes—_I_ am." He choked on the words.

Phineas had had enough. As he wandered away, Draco whispered: "Tell Dumbledore—and Snape—that I'm sorry."

But the former Headmaster was gone. Next, Draco went to his Aunt Bellatrix, who studied him in the demented fashion that had always cowed him. Raising his voice, Draco continued: "Wherefore _should _I love myself? For any good that I have done? Alas, I rather—I rather—rather—"

"A hopeless case, My Lord, just like his father." Draco hadn't even seen the portrait's lips move, but his aunt's words hissed in his ears.

"I rather _hate_ myself," his voice broke, and now he could only remember fragments of the speech. "Hateful deeds—My conscience—a thousand several tales—"

In a cold sweat, he turned to Grandfather Abraxas. These would be the hardest words. He remembered his grandfather, who had adored him as a child. Draco raised his voice again, encompassing the entire gallery.

"And every tale condemns me for a villain." Then he finished simply, softly. "Every tale, except this one—I'm in love. I'm in _love._ I'm in love with a—_Muggle._"

Then, the screaming began. Draco clapped his hands over his ears and shouted back:

"I am not ashamed! I am not ashamed! I am not—a—a—"

Before he could finish, his legs gave way. He felt the sharp pain of his head hitting a pillar, then the cold marble floor. After that, Draco felt no more.

* * *

"Oh, no, Master Draco! _Hermy _loveses you! No more of these horrible mumblingses, please, Master Draco!"

When he opened his eyes, Draco was in his bed, blankets piled over him and his foot-elf pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. She had leaned in so close that her nose pressed against his. The gigantic eyes that peered into his were as tearful as Starling's had been months ago.

"Yes, Hermy pitys and loveses you. Master Draco must _not_ despair. Master Draco is Hermy's hero!"

The memory of his "performance" in the portrait gallery rushed back.

"Oh Merlin—the portraits—insanity—my parents—they'll find out."

"Oh, no, sir. Master Draco's bosky, smelly father and rude, clothes-stealing mother will never, ever know."

"Don't talk about my parents that way."

"Hermy has her own free wills!" Her constant refrain. Draco had brought this upon himself. He winced as the elf dabbed at the cut on his forehead.

"Yes, yes," Hermy continued, "Master Draco's family will never hear from their portraitses again." She nodded at Draco solemnly. "House Elves has _powerful_ magics."

"Then why don't you just heal that cut?" Draco snapped, pushing the rag away.

"Hermy thoughts Master Draco is playing a famous_ tried-to-die_. She even broughts you the horses you asks for!"

"_WHAT_?" Draco jumped up, sending the elf tumbling. That's when he saw them: two horses in battle-armor tied to his bedpost. When one whickered at him, Draco laughed hysterically. Finally, he quieted down.

"Thank you, Hermy. That was . . . thoughtful. But perhaps you should send them back—to wherever they came from."

With a snap of her fingers, Hermy made the warhorses vanish.

"And you're sure the portraits won't talk?"

"Never again." _Snap_! She healed his cut.

"Good. I never liked them anyway." Draco sank back onto his pillows and fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:** The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my advisor/romance-expert-extraordinaire, Ruth. Thanks also to William Shakespeare, author of one of my favorite plays, _Richard III. _

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

**SHOUTOUTS:** Thanks to kitratritrat and keeptheotherone for your continued reviews, and also to all those who took time to favorite or follow _Unthinkable Acts_. _Updated 2/9/13._


	5. Chapter 5

**UNTHINKABLE ACTS**

**Chapter Five**

_Slam_!

Draco brought his fist down on his desk. Laying on his blotter was an envelope, the wax seal unbroken. It had taken him a week to get the letter right. After all that, there wasn't a sign that Starling had so much as pried the letter open then refastened it. Instead, she'd scrawled one line on the front:

_Return to sender, address unknown, no such number, no such zone._

Draco could sense that he was the butt of some kind of joke. The fact that he couldn't understand it only made him angrier. He'd done everything in his power to reach his little bird—to apologize for his disappearance for the past three months—but to no avail. And now, after all his efforts to pen the perfect apology (as honest an explanation as he could possibly give a Muggle) and then find out how to mail it, it had reappeared on his desk unopened.

Draco rubbed his throbbing hand and wished he hadn't hit the oak-top desk quite so hard. He'd never had much tolerance for pain. Yet, in some ways, the pain of his fist slamming against wood was preferable to the pain from the other slams he'd heard lately:

_Slam_!:Starling closing her textbook when he'd approached her table.

_Slam_!: The sound as she walked out of the pub the next day, not giving him a chance to come near her.

_Slam_!: Her apartment door closing in his face moments after their eyes met. She hadn't even unfastened the chain.

And now this letter: "_Return to sender, address unknown . . . " _Her words sounded like some kind of school-yard chant, but if it was, it was a cruel one.

But was it any crueler, Draco wondered, than leaving Starling alone, then looking away when she saw him through the bookstore window? Up until that moment, she'd been ready to forgive him. It was only after he turned away that she gave up on him.

She was rejecting him, just like he'd rejected her. Yet, instead of the relief Draco _should_ have felt, there was only emptiness. It was ironic. Hardly twelve hours after his performance in the portrait gallery, he learned he'd lost the woman he'd finally admitted he loved. Without shame. _Despite_ what she was.

And now _she_ didn't want _him_.

The realization made bile rise in his mouth, and it was all that he could do to to keep from being sick then and there. He might have succumbed, except a flash of movement caught his eye. Phineas Nigellus Black had wandered into the painting in front of Draco. The Headmaster surveyed his companions—a dragon roasting a griffin to a crisp while copious amounts of their blood spattered the earth—with revulsion.

But then, when did Phineas Black look anything _but_ revolted by his company? Not for the first time, Draco praised Merlin for Hermy's spell. The silence of the Manor's portraits had been the only balm for Draco's wounds. It had also, of course, unsettled the rest of the Manor's residents. Lucius couldn't bear the quiet. Narcissa sat alone in the portrait gallery, studying the faces around her—especially her sister's. And Draco—Draco was torn between relief that his secret remained hidden and regret that his grand gesture had, once again, amounted to nothing.

Draco turned his sealed letter over again, his eyes drawn to the inscription on the front. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Phineas leaning down, squinting through his spectacles to make out the words.

"My, my," the Headmaster murmured, "Has our little Edmund Kean gotten his first Dear John letter?"

Draco's chair clattered to the floor as he leapt to his feet. When he tried to speak, nothing came out.

"Mmmm," Phineas continued, "Forgotten our lines again, have we? Well, never fear, I haven't gone up yet—though your disgusting little elf did its best. Its nasty trick has made Malfoy Manor an even drearier place than usual."

"H-h-how?" Draco sputtered.

"How could this place be drearier? Or how can I speak? Ah, that's it." Phineas regarded Draco as if he were as stupid as a flobber-worm. "It's quite simple. I—wasn't—here. You drove me away with your oh-so-sincere, lavishly produced _mea culpa_. Though I must admit there was something _lacking_ in your show. Talent, for example. Taste. And a scourge. Without a bit of blood and self-flagellation, you made a sorry excuse for a penitent. I've seen much better . . . in my time . . ."

Phineas looked wistful.

"I—" Draco began, snapping his ancestor out of his reverie.

"Don't interrupt, boy. You've put me through enough trouble."

Phineas seated himself on the only un-scorched tree stump in the painting. Beside him, the griffin and the dragon continued their struggle.

"Rather poetic, isn't it? An endless fight to the death—yet neither beast will ever prevail. Of course, there are no words for _this _poem—not like the one on your little _love-note—_but if there were, it wouldn't matter. There are no answers here."

Both Draco and the former headmaster studied the battle in silence. Draco clutched the letter, worrying it in his hands.

Finally, Phineas stirred. "I'm weary of this place," he said, "And I am weary of you. You may be a Slytherin and share my blood, but you're little better than a traitor. Little better, indeed. And you, Draco Malfoy, are a fool as well as a traitor. Ever wonder how that letter showed up at Malfoy Manor?"

Draco gaped.

"I thought not. Too busy burying yourself . . . in self-pity." Phineas looked down his aquiline nose, his lips twisted. As he strode towards the edge of the painting, he called back:

"By the way, Dumbledore forgives you, Merlin knows why. I wouldn't. As for Snape—well, let's just say he has _other_ things on his mind."

For several long moments, Draco was rooted to his seat. Then, Phineas's words registered.

_Dumbledore forgives me_! Like his ancestor, Draco was unable to comprehend his former Headmaster's magnanimity. In Dumbledore's place, Draco would never forgive. In fact, when he'd begged Phineas to apologize to his former mentors, he'd regarded it as a bit of madness. But now, despite his crimes against Dumbledore—his year-long-attempt to cut the Dark Lord's most powerful foe down—Draco had received forgiveness.

Draco breathed easier than he had in a long time. Sure, he had as good as murdered the man who had been ready to rescue him. He was still guilty of the crime. But Dumbledore had given Draco absolution, simply because he'd said he was sorry.

Perhaps Draco's resentful nature caused more suffering than necessary. For some reason, he thought of the day he'd met Harry Potter in Diagon Alley—how happy he had been to talk to someone smarter than Crabbe and Goyle. Then, he'd made that same boy his enemy over a single refused handshake. If he'd been a little more flexible, a little more understanding, how different might he be today?

Never mind. Whatever he might have become, he wouldn't have been Draco Malfoy.

Draco turned to Phineas's other words. How _had _Starling returned his unopened apology? Surely Muggle post offices couldn't locate Malfoy Manor! Yet here was the letter, laying on his desk. He had been so busy mooning over Starling's cryptic inscription that he hadn't bothered to ask the obvious question.

Hermy provided a few answers: she'd found the letter, and it was she—not magic, not an owl—who had left it on Draco's writing-desk. As for _how_ she'd found it, she could only answer that during her "free times" she liked take "a constitutional" around the the grounds. It was a pleasure she'd been denied before Draco gave her his robe.

That morning, she'd spotted a befuddled Muggle postman pacing up and down the street near the border of the estate. When Hermy recognized the Malfoy seal on the letter in his hand, she'd summoned the missive right through the Manor's wards. After seeing the letter vanish into thin air, the postman had, it seemed, departed with great dispatch.

Then, Draco had to consider the inscription. Phineas Black had called it a poem, and the more Draco read it, the more certain he became that it was exactly that: a poem _and_ a riddle. He cursed. Starling, with her endless Muggle mumbo-jumbo, was maddening.

Yes, there was something cunning about his little bird. Despite her sweet face, she had a temper. Draco realized that she was punishing him. Pushing him. Making him _work_ to win her back. Starling wasn't going to make things easy for him. She didn't bow to the Slytherin Prince—not like Pansy, Millicent, or the others had.

Draco loved Starling all the more for it. He'd tell her so, if he ever cornered her—and if he could keep himself from strangling her in frustration first.

* * *

It took several days for Draco to discover that the lines Starling had scrawled on his letter were _not_ a poem. After a long morning scouring Muggle libraries for clues, he walked past a little diner: another place he and Starling had gone. It was—he recalled—a 1950s, American-style place with an ice-cream counter, a fat, friendly-looking waitress, and something called a jukebox.

_A jukebox_. At last, Draco realized the words on the envelope were not a poem. They were the refrain of song—a maddeningly catchy song that had played in that diner as Starling drank a chocolate milkshake. Through the whole thing, she'd hummed and tapped her foot. Draco hadn't paid attention to the music—he'd been too busy staring at a smudge of chocolate syrup on Starling's lip and wishing they were back in her apartment.

The song was some sort of message, but Draco knew neither what it was called, nor the names of any popular musicians. There was only one thing to do: question more Muggles. Hopefully, this time he'd only have to ask one. He was too impatient to search every music store in London.

When he entered the diner, the same old woman stood behind the counter. She recognized him, and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she asked him where his girlfriend was—they made _such_ an adorable pair. Draco felt a stab of pain.

"Um—" he started, racking his brain for a suitable lie, "Well—her birthday is coming up soon, and I wanted to buy her a record, but I can't remember the musician or the name of the song or—anything—"

His voice trailed off lamely, but the server seemed to believe him. She leaned on the counter.

"How can I help you, sweetie?"

Draco's lip curled at the term of endearment—it was far too familiar for his taste. But then, if he was going to be with Starling, he supposed he'd have to get used to Muggles taking liberties with him. He schooled his face into neutrality.

"Well, if you could tell me what the song is called—"

Draco stopped short as he realized just _what_ he was going to have to do next: Sing. Aloud. To a Muggle. In public. The old woman was looking at him expectantly.

There was nothing for it. Draco turned as red as a beet, but he did it. He sang—right then and there—while a dozen people turned to stare at him. The old woman erupted in laughter, which made Draco's humiliation, he thought, complete.

But it got worse.

"Oh, dearie," the old woman said, stifling her giggles. "It's called 'Return to Sender.'"

_Bloody hell_. _Of course_.

"And the performer?" Draco said between his teeth.

"None other than the King."

Draco blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "But I thought we had a queen?!"

The Muggle made a choking noise and covered her mouth with her hand. Finally, she told him that the musician was Elvis, that she could show him how to work the jukebox, and that he deserved an ice-cream soda for giving her the best laugh she'd had in years.

Before long, Draco found himself with cold drink in his hand, a cackling old woman at his side, and a sickly-sweet song ringing in his ears. By the end of the number, however, Draco got Starling's message:

"_This time, I'm gonna take it myself, and put it right in her hand . . ._"

She wanted his apology in person.

Well, if that's what she wanted, that's what she'd get. But why had she put him through all this? Why not just _tell_ him she was ready to hear him out? Draco slammed his glass down on the counter and stalked out of the diner. Before going, however, he tossed the old woman a tip. As much as she had mortified him, she'd also given him the answer he needed.

And he _had_ rather liked the ice cream soda.

* * *

Although Draco had the letter in his pocket, it was many hours before his temper cooled enough for him to go to Starling's flat. He wasn't accustomed to being laughed at—except when the Dark Lord and his cronies had mocked him. His experience in the diner had enraged him. Indeed, it was fortunate that he didn't have his wand. A few things might have mysteriously exploded, laws against magic in Muggle London be damned.

At dusk, Draco found himself sitting on a bench in a park. He stared across a pond as a few ducks quacked and waddled away from him. As Draco gazed into nothingness, the image of the wrinkly old waitress came back to him: her eyes sparkling with good humor, her ready smile, and her warm words. _Her_ laughter wasn't a thin veil for nastiness. It was genuine.

_She's probably somebody's grandmother. _The thought came out of nowhere, and he didn't see much point in speculating about a stupid Muggle's family. _Still . . . _Draco could imagine the woman with a gaggle of giggling children, each digging into a chocolate sundae or banana split while she plugged coin after coin into the jukebox. He could even see her grabbing a little boy's chubby, sticky hands and leading him in a clumsy dance.

Muggle or no, that _person_, who had helped him even as she bit her knuckles to hold back her laughter, was kinder than either of Draco's grandmothers had ever been. In fact, he hadn't liked either of them much at all. Certainly, they'd never played with him.

Draco shuddered. The more he saw, the less he liked his own relations—excepting his mum, of course. He wished he could have another family. One of his own making. No formal, distant grandparents. No drunken father. No mother who'd suffered so much that she'd turned herself into ice. And absolutely _no_ insane aunts.

_Maybe Starling's family is better . . ._

Then, Draco knew that he didn't just want his _family_ to be better. He also wanted the Malfoy name to mean something again. Something good. It shouldn't have to be a byword for evil, shame, and failure. Couldn't something be salvaged from the wreckage of his and his mother's lives? Dimly, Draco recognized that Narcissa had already started to rebuild. She'd begun long ago, the moment she'd told the Dark Lord that Harry Potter was dead. All the time she'd worked, Draco had been running. Even now, he was fleeing from life, avoiding both Starling and his overdue apologies.

He couldn't hide forever. With a sigh, he started walking to his little bird's flat.

* * *

By the time he arrived, darkness had fallen. There was no moon tonight, and most of the street-lamps around Starling's apartment were flickering or out. As Draco reached for the bell, he saw two things: a shadow gliding down the street, and the corner of Starling's curtain dropping, as if she'd been watching for something.

When she opened the door, her eyes were wide. She looked behind Draco nervously.

"Did you see anyone out there?" she whispered.

Draco shook his head.

"I . . . thought I saw somebody."

"Maybe it was me?" Draco said.

"Maybe."

Starling released the chain. Following her up the stairs, he noticed her tangled hair and tattered robe. He realized it was quite late—that he might even have gotten his little bird out of bed. After she let him into her flat, she clutched her robe at the neck and waited.

Draco fumbled in his pocket and produced the letter. He said that he hoped she'd open it this time. Nodding, Starling responded she would read it in private. She sent him to the battered living room and started to play a DVD.

"I'll be a while, so you might as well have something to watch," she threw over her shoulder. "And Draco, I hope I _like_ what I read."

Starling went into her bedroom, and Draco, suffocating, opened the window and leaned out. He hoped the cool, spring air would clear his head. After a few minutes, music began: a deep, throaty voice accompanied by a guitar:

"_If you're looking for trouble, you came to the right place._"

Draco glanced towards the television. Muggle music. What tripe. _Lucky Starling isn't here to see me_, Draco mused.

"_If you're looking for trouble, just look right into my face . . ._" After a few moments, he realized that this performer was the same one that had sung the ditty that Starling had written on the front of his letter.

"_Well I'm evil, so don't you mess around with me._"

That hit a little too close to home. Another of his little bird's bloody riddles_. _Draco forgot the open window and steeled himself to listen carefully—to figure out this puzzle faster than the last. When camera panned to the audience, Draco noted that the Muggles were wearing the most ridiculous clothes he'd ever had the displeasure of seeing. All the same, Draco had to admit that this man's music was better than any of the wizarding bands he'd heard.

After a few minutes, the singer—Elvis, Draco reminded himself—interrupted a song to speak to his audience:

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," the performer said. "There's something wrong with my lip." He curled his lip, much to the audience's delight.

It was not a pleasant expression. Draco resolved to sneer less often. It was an ugly habit, and Draco couldn't afford to look worse than he already did. He stepped away from the window. _Where the hell is she_? _It's been almost eight minutes_ . . . How could reading one letter take so long? He began to pace. The apartment was too small, too hot. The music droned on.

"_Well, since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell . . . I've been so lonely, baby, I've been so lonely, I've been so lonely I could die . . ._"

That's exactly how Draco had felt for the last few months. Perhaps _that_ was Starling's message?

When twelve minutes had passed, the so-called King began a ballad:

"_Wise men say, only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you . . ._"

At that moment, Starling emerged from her room, fully dressed, a blue vest pulled over her button-down. Despite her layers, she was trembling. Her eyes shone. The music played on.

"_Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be . . . take my hand, take my whole life too, for I can't help falling in love with you._"

Draco's heart soared. Starling's timing couldn't have been more perfect. Her riddle was solved. She loved him. Starling _loved _him, despite what he'd done. In an instant, Draco saw their future unfolding. She'd forgive him. She'd look at him the way she had before. Together, they could make a family. He wouldn't be alone anymore. He'd show everyone that he had changed.

He'd get everything he wanted. He just had to say those three little words—

But Starling spoke first.

"You are an intolerable dictator, Draco Malfoy."

Despite her trembling, her voice was low, dangerous, and—worst of all—bitter. Draco had never heard her sound bitter before. His vision of their future together shattered.

Suddenly, Draco realized that Starling was trembling from rage, not joy. She turned off the television and wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

"My sister always said that people tell you who they are," she said. "I thought I was so clever. I thought I knew better."

She turned to Draco, studying him as if he were a grotesque specimen in one of Severus Snape's jars. "I had this all planned out, you know. That song was my cue to forgive you. I'm such a—a—_fool. _I should have walked out the moment you said you weren't a nice man."

_Say something. Say anything. _Draco could feel himself flailing. He'd never been good at dealing with a full frontal assault. He did better when he attacked first. Therefore, he said the first thing that came into his mind:

"I am not a dictator!" _Damn. Not that. _He tried again, but his next effort was no better: "I apologized. What more do you expect?"

Even he could hear the whining, wheedling note in his voice. He sounded just like the little third-year who'd spent months with his arm in a sling, milking a scratch for all it was worth and pointing his finger at that damned Hippogriff. He'd always done everything in his power to deflect attention from his own foolish mistakes. But what could he have done wrong this time? He'd poured his heart into that letter—yet, somehow, he'd still failed.

_How could he have failed?_ Starling didn't keep him waiting for an answer.

"This isn't an apology, Draco," she said, holding up the crumpled letter. "Every word is about you."

"That's not tr—"

"Let's see . . ." she continued, tossing the wad of paper on the floor. "_You_ heard some disturbing news three months ago—I can just imagine what kind!" Draco could hear the sarcasm in her voice. "_You_ didn't have the heart to contact me. _You_ were worried that your family wouldn't accept me. _You_ decided it was best that we not see each other again, that a clean break would be easier for me. And—best of all—_you've_ changed _your_ mind and decided that we're perfect for each other."

She ticked each point off on her fingers. Draco had to admit that what he wrote didn't sound so good, not when she put it that way.

"But I—"

"No. You've _had_ your turn, Draco. Now it's mine, and I want to know something. Did it ever occur to you that—maybe—my family might not be thrilled about you? Or—maybe—I might have my own feelings and and opinions about my life? Or that—maybe, just _maybe_—I might not fall right back into your arms as soon as you called?"

Well, no. He hadn't considered any of that. He'd assumed that, as long as he passed her silly little tests, she'd take him back. He'd thought he was taking the high road—that he was doing her a favor by deigning to love her. After all, she was a Muggle. She was just a _better kind_ of Muggle.

"Starling," he whispered, "I didn't want to hurt you." That was true.

"You have."

"I was trying to protect you." Also true.

"I'm not as frail as I look."

When she took a few steps towards him, Draco stepped back. Gone was his bookstore-girl. His little bird. His sweet, breakable Muggle. Looking into Starling's eyes, Draco realized that that person had never existed. Starling was a woman. A formidable woman. More than his match, in fact—with or without magic.

He couldn't bear to look at her, so he walked to the window and leaned against the frame. Shadows shifted in the street, darting from tree to tree. The clock in the kitchen counted off the seconds.

Draco knew he _was_ a selfish man. He _was_ a little dictator. He _did_ expect everyone to jump to do what he wanted—even after five years of being an outcast.

His shame meant nothing, because deep down he hadn't changed at all. Everything he'd done had been to ease his own conscience. He hadn't even freed Hermy because it was the right thing to do. He'd done it because he wanted her to be devoted to him. Just like he'd wanted Starling to be. Just like he'd imagined she already was.

He'd fallen in love with a fantasy, and he'd been too blind to see it.

"I think you should go now."

Starling was holding out his coat. Numbly, he took it. In the past, he would have kissed her goodnight. Now, that was impossible. But even if he couldn't kiss her, he could tell her the truth. He wasn't all bad. He had tried to do the right thing, though in all the wrong ways.

"Starling," he said, "I also went away because I didn't think I was good enough for you."

"You're not."

He nodded, struggling into his coat.

"But Draco," Starling pressed on, "I know enough about you to see what else is going on."

"And what is that?"

"You also think that _I'm_ not good enough for _you._ I always thought you were better than that, Draco. I really did. I believed in you."

_And now I don't_. Starling didn't have to speak the words, but Draco understood. It was time to leave.

"Wait," Starling called after him. He stopped, his hand on the knob. "Tell me one thing before you go. Have you ever—ever in your life—said you were sorry and meant it?"

"Yes." He swallowed. "Once."

"What for? Who to?"

"I said I was sorry—to a man I tried to murder."

Starling didn't do any of the things he'd expected. She didn't gasp. She didn't scream. She didn't look at him with horror or try to ring up the police. She just stood there, staring at the floor. He couldn't see her face, but as far as he could tell, she hadn't reacted at all. After a moment, she took a deep breath.

"Goodnight, Draco."

"Goodnight, Starling." His throat closed as he spoke the words. The lock clicked behind him. As Draco walked down the stairs from her flat, he could hear each step echo.

It was over.

It was really over.

And it was his fault that it was over.

Draco stepped out the front door and leaned against the brick wall. He stared into the shadows cast by the flickering streetlights. There was nowhere he wanted to go. Not home. Not to the Leaky Cauldron. Not to some Muggle hotel or all-night diner just to stare into a cup of coffee and feel sorry for himself.

This was the only place he wanted to be. He'd stay where he was. Draco slid down the wall and pulled his knees to his chest. For an hour, Starling's light glowed and her window remained open. He heard that Muggle music playing again. The same ballad: "_Wise men say only fools rush in_ . . ."

Draco thought he heard a sob. Finally, Starling shut the window and turned out the light. Draco imagined her going into her room, undressing, and curling up under her duvet in her frumpy pajamas . . . Did she doze off like that time when they'd cuddled on her bed and she'd laid her head on his shoulder? He hadn't even minded when she'd drooled on his favorite shirt.

Draco doubted he would ever sleep again.

In the early hours of the morning, it started to drizzle. He buried his head in his arms and closed his eyes. Not even his worst nightmares had felt this bad.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWEDGEMENTS: **"Return to Sender" was performed by Elvis Presley in the movie _Girls! Girls! Girls!_ The DVD that Starling plays in her apartment is "Elvis," often referred to as the "'68 Comeback Special." The song order, quoted dialogue, and timing matches the first fifteen minutes of the special (also available on YouTube). If you squint, Elvis resembles a raven-haired version of LeatherPants!Draco. The King of Rock and Roll seemed like just the person to wipe that smirk off Draco Malfoy's face . . .

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


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